by Andrea Japp
Without you, Benoît, my world is empty. You were the only one who might have been a kindred spirit, but your love for Him separated us. And yet I, too, love Him more than my life, more than my salvation.
I drugged myself so that my vile executioner might enter the secret corridor leading from my office to your chamber. Even as I drank the bitter potion I prayed it would kill me. But death turned its back on me. They blamed my faltering speech on the opium when I was choking with grief.
Remember how I watched you eat those figs one by one. You beamed at me like a child as you recalled the sweet days spent at Ostia. With each shred of purple skin that you spat out into your hand another drop of life drained from you. I counted the number of breaths you had left, and as the poison spread into your veins so my soul drained from my body.
I have no place in my heart for regret, Benoît. Still worse, I have no regrets because I could never have allowed you to strip away our majesty, our supremacy, in the name of some splendid Utopia. Still worse, because since your death I no longer live, I toil. That is all I have left, together with this terrible emptiness.
If in His eyes and yours I acted wrongly, in the eyes of mankind I did what was right. I will accept my punishment. It can be no worse than my present suffering.
Beloved Benoît, may your sweet soul rest in peace. I implore you even as each fibre of my being cries out for an end to this most fervent of its desires.
Honorius Benedetti stood up and dried his face, which was moist with tears. The room was spinning, and he leaned against his enormous work table to steady himself. Finally the dizziness went away. He paused to catch his breath then pulled the braided rope behind the tapestries that brightened up his study. An usher appeared out of nowhere.
‘Show him in.’
‘Very good, Your Eminence.’
The cowled figure stepped into the room.
‘Well?’
‘Archambaud d’Arville is dead, run through with a sword. Leone has slipped through our fingers.’
The camerlingo closed his eyes in a gesture of despair.
‘How could that be? Did you warn Arville to be on his guard? Leone is a soldier – one of the finest in his order.’
‘He was supposed to drug him in order to render him weak.’
Benedetti grunted and asked:
‘Do you think this is another intervention by one of theirs?’
‘The idea had crossed my mind.’
‘Why have none of my spies succeeded in flushing them out? I might be forgiven for thinking that they enjoy divine protection!’
‘No, Your Eminence. God is on our side. Even so, our enemies are accustomed to secret warfare. We forced them back into their caves, crevices and catacombs. They turned this defeat to their advantage. They have become an army of shadows whose strength we cannot gauge.’
‘In your opinion, does Leone know that his secret quest was in fact instigated by others?’
‘It would surprise me.’
The prelate’s irritation got the better of him and he demanded sharply:
‘All the evidence suggests that that scoundrel Humeau sold the manuscripts he stole from the papal library to Francesco de Leone. Have you found them?’
‘Not yet. But I am searching tirelessly.’
‘Indeed! I would prefer it if you searched successfully.’
‘Everything points towards Clairets Abbey.’
‘What is Leone’s connection to the place?’ asked the camerlingo.
‘The Abbess, Éleusie de Beaufort. Benoît XI appointed her and I am beginning to wonder whether there might not be some other connection between her and the knight which we don’t know about.’
‘Make it your business to recover the Vallombroso treatise urgently. Without it we are incapable of calculating the dates of birth. And the work on necromancy, too … At this stage any help, however subversive, is welcome.’
‘You don’t intend to … I mean, you are not going to use that monstrosity?’
‘You speak of monstrosities? And what do you suppose you are guilty of since you began working for me?’
The figure remained silent.
‘And what of the woman?’ the camerlingo continued.
The figure drew back his cowl. His face broke into a smile.
‘At this moment in time, Your Eminence, there can’t be much left of her and I wouldn’t want to be in the place of what little there is.’
‘Her suffering brings me no enjoyment. Suffering is far too precious a sacrifice to be wasted in vain demonstrations. I know one thing,’ the prelate murmured, before continuing in a firmer voice: ‘Agnès de Souarcy must die, and quickly, but her execution must be made to look like a just one. I have no need for a martyr on my hands.’
‘I’ll inform her torturer at once. He will be disappointed. He gets drunk on suffering like others do on mulled wine.’
‘He has received handsome enough recompense for his obedience,’ Benedetti pointed out sharply. ‘I detest the enjoyment of torturers. Once his work is done I want him killed. We have no more need of him. His repulsive existence is a stain on my soul.’
‘Your wish is my command, Your Eminence.’
Honorius was exasperated and said through gritted teeth: ‘You are aware of my wishes, now carry them out – I pay you enough! I would hate to lose patience with you. Now go.’
The threat was plain enough and the figure pulled down his cowl and left.
The camerlingo waited a moment before angrily summoning the usher with an angry tug on the bell rope.
‘Has she arrived?’
‘Not yet, Your Eminence.’
Disappointment was written all over Benedetti’s face and he muttered under his breath:
‘Why is she so late? Let me know as soon as she arrives.’
‘Very good, Your Eminence.’
Louvre Palace, Paris, November 1304
One of Philip the Fair’s huge lurchers was gazing at him balefully. Guillaume de Nogaret sat waiting in the King’s study chambers, trying his best not to move for fear that the bitch with a white coat and brindled markings on her head might interpret his slightest gesture as a threat. These animals allegedly killed their prey with a single bite. He understood the need for them, though not what induced the ladies to keep the more decorative of these four-legged creature as pets, even going so far as to dress them in embroidered coats to keep them warm in winter.86 It was true that to Monsieur de Nogaret’s mind God’s only true creature was man, and to a lesser extent woman, and the Almighty had put all other species on earth for him to use without ill-treating or doing violence to them.
The counsellor saw Philip the Fair’s tall, emaciated figure appear at the far end of the gloomy corridor he had been staring down. He stood up to the immediate accompaniment of unfriendly growls from the bitch, which moved forward, sniffing vigorously at the hem of his coat.
‘Down,’ he ordered in a hushed tone.
This had the effect of making the dog growl even more loudly. As soon as her master entered the room, she bounded over to him and placed herself between him and this man whose smell she did not care for.
‘There’s a good girl, Delmée,’ Philip said reassuringly, bending down to pat her. ‘Go and lie down, my beauty. Did you know, my dear Nogaret, that she is the fastest of all my hunting dogs, and that she can snap a hare’s spine with one bite?’
‘A truly fine animal,’ the counsellor conceded with such a lack of conviction that it brought a smile to Philip’s lips.
‘I sometimes wonder what other interests or amusements you have besides the affairs of state and the law.’
‘None, Sire, which do not relate to your affairs.’
‘Well, how do things stand regarding my pope? Benoît XI, or rather his sudden demise, has left me in an invidious position.’
Nogaret was in no way offended by this remark. And yet, if the Pope’s unexpected passing had left anybody in a delicate situation, it was he. His plan to provide Phili
p the Fair with a Holy Father who was more concerned with spiritual matters than France’s affairs of state was still not ready. Guillaume de Nogaret detested acting hastily, but the forthcoming election gave him no choice. He explained:
‘On my behalf Guillaume de Plaisians has approached Renaud de Cherlieu, Cardinal of Troyes, and Bertrand de Got,* Archbishop of Bordeaux. These are our two most promising candidates.’
‘And?’
‘It will doubtless come as no surprise to you, Sire, to learn that they are both, and I quote, “extremely interested in serving our Holy Mother Church”.’
‘Indeed, it comes as no surprise, Nogaret. The papal crown confers countless benefits, including, I suppose, money. What do they demand for deigning to rule over Christendom?’
‘They are both equally greedy … Privileges, titles for family members, various gifts and certain assurances from you.’
‘What assurances?’
‘That their authority in spiritual matters should remain established and that you should no longer interest yourself in the administration of the French Church.’
‘The French Church is in France and I am the ruler of France. The landed wealth of the French Church is so vast that it would make even my richest lords green with envy. Why should it enjoy even greater privilege?’
Nogaret equivocated:
‘Indeed, Sire … But we need a pope who will be well disposed towards you. Let us offer these assurances … Do you really think that the successful candidate will come complaining and risk the negotiations that led to his election being revealed?’
Philip the Fair’s pursed lips betrayed his ill humour.
‘Which one do we favour?’
‘If we have considered them both, it is because their willingness to serve us is unquestionable. Monseigneur de Got is certainly the shrewder of the two, though like Cherlieu a mild-mannered man, a trait, if I may say so, which influenced our choice.’
‘Indeed, we do not want a strong personality. And what do they intend to do about that scourge, Boniface VIII? You are aware, Nogaret, of how keen I am for him to be deposed, albeit posthumously, in revenge for poisoning my existence. He systematically opposed my every order, and I am convinced he even went so far as to instigate the rebellion in the Languedoc by backing that troublemaker Bernard Délicieux.* Boniface …’ the King said with contempt. ‘An arrogant blunder whose memory is a stain on Christianity!’
Their mutual loathing for Benoît XI’s predecessor created a further bond between the two men.
‘Plaisians has naturally broached the matter with tact and diplomacy. They both appeared to listen carefully to him, and in any event showed no hostility.’
‘How will we choose between the two, for we are unable to move two pawns at the same time?’
‘I would give my backing to the Archbishop of Bordeaux, Monseigneur de Got.’
‘And your reasons?’
‘You are better acquainted than I with his skill as a diplomat. Furthermore, the Gascons like him, which will earn us additional votes at no cost and with no need for open intervention. Finally and most importantly, Monseigneur de Got has come out in favour of reuniting all the military orders under one flag, and thus of ending the Templars’ autonomy. Our motives may differ, but we seek the same end.’
‘Let it be Monsieur de Got, then. We shall back him resolutely and discreetly, and make sure he shows his gratitude.’
Clairets Abbey, Perche, November 1304
Crouched in the corner of a tiny room, dark and dank, stinking of excreta and sour milk. Crouched on the muddy floor that has coated her skimpy dress, her calves and thighs with a foul greenish film. Crouching, straining in the darkness, trying to make sense of the sounds she heard. There had been a voice barking out orders, obscene laughter and cries followed by screams of pain. Then a terrified silence. Crouching, trying hard to merge into the stone walls, hoping to dissolve there, to vanish for ever. Steps coming to a halt outside the solid-looking low door. A voice declaring:
‘At least they say this female’s pleasing and comely!’
‘She used to be. She looked more like a beggar when I brought her back down from the interrogation room.’
A loud rapping on the door. Why did they keep on when all they needed to do was pull the bolt across? The rapping grew louder and louder. Stop, I say, stop …
Éleusie de Beaufort managed to wrench herself free from the nightmare that had ensnared her. Drenched in sweat, she sat up in bed. Agnès. The torture. The torture was about to begin. What was Francesco doing?
Somebody was moving outside the door to her chambers. A voice cried out. It was Annelette:
‘Reverend Mother, I beg you, wake up … Jeanne … Hedwige …’
She leapt out of bed and ran to open the door.
Thibaude de Gartempe, the guest mistress, was clinging to Annelette Beaupré’s arm. Behind the two women stood Emma de Pathus and Blanche de Blinot, both deathly pale.
‘What is it?’ asked Éleusie, alarmed, as she straightened her veil.
Thibaude shouted in a rasping voice:
‘They’re going to die, they’re going to die … Oh dear Lord … I won’t stay in this godforsaken place a moment longer … I want to leave, now …’
The guest mistress, her eyes flashing and in the grip of hysteria, looked ready to hurl herself at the Abbess. Annelette tried to pacify her and snapped:
‘That’s enough! Let go of me! You’re digging your nails into my arm. Let go, I say …’
The other woman cried out: ‘I want to leave … Let me leave. If you …’
A stinging slap jerked the woman’s head to one side. Annelette was preparing to raise her hand again when Éleusie intervened:
‘Will somebody tell me what is going on!’
‘It is Jeanne d’Amblin and Hedwige du Thilay. They are terribly ill. The vomiting began just after bedtime.’
The Abbess felt the blood drain from her face. She began shaking and in a barely audible voice asked:
‘Yew poisoning?’
‘It could be. I’m still not sure, although the symptoms appear to be consistent.’
Without a word Éleusie leapt out into the corridor and ran to the dormitories, followed by the four women.
Jeanne d’Amblin lay between sheets soaked in bloody vomit, her eyes closed, her chest barely lifting as she breathed, her face twisted into a grimace of excruciating pain. Éleusie placed a hand on the woman’s icy brow then stood up straight, trying her best to stifle the sobs that were choking her.
Annelette roared:
‘Where is the water I ordered?’
A petrified novice handed her a jug, spilling a quarter of the contents on the floor.
A cry rang out from the other end of the dormitory:
‘She’s leaving us … No, it’s not possible … Somebody, do something …’
Éleusie rushed over. Hedwige du Thilay’s head had just flopped onto the shoulder of the sister in charge of the fishponds and henhouses, Geneviève Fournier. Beside herself, powerless to accept the truth, she was shaking the treasurer nun’s frail little body in an effort to revive her and whispering:
‘Please, Hedwige dear, please wake up … Come along, Hedwige, come along now … Can’t you hear me? It’s me, Geneviève, remember, with my turkeys, my eggs, my carp and crayfish. Please try, I beg you. You must breathe, Hedwige dear. Look, I’ll help you. I’ll loosen your nightshirt and you’ll feel more comfortable.’
With surprising gentleness, Annelette attempted to free the poor woman’s skinny corpse, but Geneviève refused to let go. Annelette sniffed the bluish lips and stuck her finger in Hedwige’s mouth in order to smell her saliva. Then she kissed Geneviève’s brow, which was slick with sweat, and murmured:
‘She’s dead. Let go of her, please.’
‘No. No!’ shrieked the sister in charge of the fishponds. ‘It’s not possible!’
She clung on to her sister, almost lying on top of her lifeless body and b
uried her face in the woman’s neck, repeating in a frantic voice:
‘No, it’s not possible. The Lord wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t allow one of his sweetest angels to be taken like that. I know he wouldn’t! No, dear Annelette, you’re mistaken – she isn’t dead at all. She’s fainted, that’s all. It’s just a nasty turn. You know what a frail constitution she has. Dead! … What nonsense!’
Éleusie was about to intervene, but Annelette discouraged her with a shake of her head and instructed:
‘We must see to Jeanne now that I think I know which poison we are dealing with.’ She added in a whisper so that Geneviève Fournier would not hear: ‘Not a word to Jeanne about Hedwige’s death. You know how close they were. Our extern sister’s life is hanging by a thread and there is no point in weakening her chances by dealing her a terrible blow.’
They turned away for a time from the woman who refused despair, knowing that the respite would be short-lived and that the gentle Geneviève’s grief would soon hit her with all the force of an implacable truth.
Jeanne was suffocating. Waves of nausea filled her mouth with bloody saliva that oozed down her chin. She let out a cry:
‘Dear God, the pain … My stomach is bursting. Bless me, Reverend Mother, for I have sinned … I beg you, bless me before … it’s too late … Water … I’m so thirsty … Bless me …’
Éleusie made the sign of the cross on her brow and murmured:
‘I bless you, my daughter, my friend, and hereby absolve you of your sins.’
A faint relief slackened the grimace of pain etched on Jeanne’s face. The dying woman managed to whisper:
‘Is Hedwige any better?’
‘Yes, Jeanne, we hope that she may live,’ Éleusie lied.
‘We … we were poisoned at the same time.’
‘I know … Rest, preserve your strength, daughter.’
Jeanne closed her eyes and spluttered:
‘Damn her …’
‘She is damned, now try to be quiet.’
Annelette picked up the ewer of water and ordered Jeanne to be held down and her mouth forced open.